


Gothic Revival, or Nope, No Cure

by blackmare, Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Halloween, Humor, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmare/pseuds/blackmare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House can't remember why he came over to Wilson's in the first place. Spoilers through 8.02, "Transplant."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gothic Revival, or Nope, No Cure

  
"Hey, Wilson! I got the electronic tether extended to include your -- oh my God."

House's mouth falls open. He's stopped moving, while he boggles at the figure sitting in Wilson's favorite chair.

The figure that can't possibly be Wilson, with its powdered-white face and its dark eyes wide, horrified, and rimmed with more kohl than Cleopatra's.

Wilson's hair is black, sooted up with something that House hopes is temporary, and arranged in spikes like, like Robert Smith's stylist did a hit-and-run; and Wilson's mouth has the most interesting shape, really, and House hasn't noticed just _how_ interesting before, but the black lipstick against white powder is ... wrong.

House finds himself in the unheard-of predicament of being completely without words. It's Wilson who finally breaks the silence.

"Shit," Wilson says. "You weren't supposed to see this. It's, it's a ... Halloween thing."

"That you're doing alone. In your condo. Two weeks before the big day."

"I needed to make sure I wasn't allergic to any of this stuff. So ... I tested it, and then I ..." He trails off, rubbing the nape of his neck.

"Liked it. Oh my God, is that black nail polish?" It is. It _is_ , and there are silver rings on Wilson's hands, and a black leather thread with some kind of silver pendant around Wilson's neck, which is nicely exposed because you just can't wear a tie with that black silk poet shirt. "You're going to a party as the kid the jocks beat up?" He has to change the subject, stat, because if he keeps thinking about the shape of those lips and the way the silk is resting on those collarbones, there'll be trouble and holy shit, he has to learn this about himself _now?_

"Vampire, you idiot," Wilson huffs.

Instantly House is even worse off, with the unbidden unholy image of those lips against his own throat, and this was so not what he had in mind when he stole Wilson's spare key.

"I need a drink," he says. His voice sounds very very strange. "Or ten. Ten should do it."

Wilson blinks at him, his eyes looking so much darker with the makeup on and the Ebony Ever After hair dye, and why the hell is House not laughing his ass off at this?

Wilson wants to know that, too. "You should be into Mockery Overdrive by now. Are you okay?"

"Of course not. Just learned that my best friend is a vampire." _And that I like it_ , his brain helpfully adds. _Way, way, way too much_. "Not a bad look for you, though. It's actually kind of an improvement."

Wilson's shoulders sag with something very much like relief.

"So ... so you're not going to tell," he murmurs.

"Tell? That I found you playing dress-up, alone, like you were five? Hell yes, I 'm going to tell." House pretends to fumble his cell phone from his pocket, but at the look on Wilson's face --god, that _face_ \-- he relents.

"What is this, ninth grade?" he grumbles. "Of course I'm not going to tell. What would be the point? You're already planning to go out in public this way."  
   
"Ah ... true."

"When's the party?"

"Halloween night."

"And I'm not invited."

"You're tethered, remember?" There's a flash of pure guilt in those black-rimmed eyes. It can only mean one of two things, and House is pretty sure which.

"Who's your date?"

"I don't have one."

"If that's true, and you still weren't telling me, that means ... that means the party is _here_."

The second flash of guilt confirms House's suspicions, and much to his surprise, he feels ... hurt.  What the hell?

"Okay," he says. "Okay, then," and suddenly it _is_ ninth grade, and moving time yet again, and no invitations and no weekends at other kids' houses, not ever.

"It's a costume party," Wilson says.

"I can see that."

"No, I mean ... I mean ... "  Wilson is floundering.  House watches him.

"Please tell me I wasn't invited purely because you knew I couldn't come."

"And because it would have been stupid to spoil the surprise."

"As in, 'Surprise! I'm throwing a shindig I know you can't attend'? That's --"

"Stupid!" Wilson supplies. "But not what I was doing. The ... party is at your place, okay? Dinner, plenty of candy, some classic _Dawn of the Dead_ , and a tolerant friend to deal with any rugrats who ring the bell."

House's mouth opens. After a moment he closes it.

"You're not lying," he says.

"No."

"A party. At my place."

"Yes."

He opens and closes his mouth again, realizes he looks like a fish, and stops. His tongue is dry. He needs a beer. He needs to sit down. He needs to stop thinking of Wilson, alone in House's apartment, with those silver rings marking the motions of his hands and those eyes watching movies and House's every move. He needs --

"Who else is invited?"

"They ... I ... didn't. Your team's gone, I don't know your poker guys. Your other friends, if you made any, are still guests of the State of New Jersey."

"So the party is just me. Just you. In that ridiculous ... ridiculous getup."

"I have the full makeup kit. I was going to turn you into Frankenstein's monster so you could lumber forth now and then and be scary. Not that you really need _makeup_ for ... House?"

 _Beer_ , House thinks. _Turn around, go to fridge, get beer_. He does that, barely seeing what's in front of him because he's mentally on his own sofa with his shoulder against a silk sleeve against Wilson's skin, and he's back in the living room before he discovers that he's holding a bottle of something called Gingkoda. Something that came from the health food mecca and the cap doesn't even screw off. Which is just as well, since if it did he'd have opened the repulsive stuff by now. He should be doing something, but he's standing here like a dumbass while Wilson aims that concern and those bright, dark eyes at him once more.

"House?"

"What?" House says. 

"You ... it's okay. You don't have to ... it was a stupid idea." Wilson's smiling, but it's forced, and he looks disappointed.

Oh, hell.

"No," House says. "Frankenstein's monster it is."

"It'll ... work best if you let me do the makeup. I, I was in musical theater. You _are_ going to mock me for that, right?"

He's sure he will. He'll mock long and hard, once he gets past imagining Wilson's fingers all over his face, and how that will feel, and why he wants to know.

"Are you okay?"

No. No, he is not okay, he is looking at the edges of white teeth and noting that there are no fangs with this costume and that's all right because they would get in the way of, of he doesn't want to think about what. What he's already thinking about.

"Fine. Leg hurts; need to sit down. Can I trade this crap for a Heineken?"

Of course he can. Wilson's hand brushes his and then stops, clasping firmly. "You are not okay. House, look at me."

House swallows hard, and does, because there's no way out of this except to go on the attack, and all his offensive forces seem to have decamped for parts unknown.

"What's ... have you done something? Are you really cleared to be over here?"

"No. Nothing you don't know about. Yes, on the clearance."

"Then ... right. Pain. Go take up the whole damn sofa, please; I'll be with you in a moment."

"Wait. Why do you want to do my makeup?"

"Because ... because I know how. Theater, remember? Mockery?"

"Sickly green with some stitches hardly requires expertise." He leads the way to the counter, with Wilson following as if pulled by a string. The Gingko brew, he thumps down there before turning back to his own very worried Lord of Darkness. "What it _does_ require is that I have to let you touch me."

"I ... I said ... you know you don't have to, to do anything. I just --"

"Wanted an excuse. A reason I would maybe go for. A reason you could tell yourself and reasonably believe." Where the powder is thin, at the edges of Wilson's ears, House can see a faint flush of pink. Nail, head. This is fantastic. This is not happening.

"Forget it, House. I just thought --"

"You were wrong." Damn it, that was supposed to feel good, making Wilson twist a little, but he's crumpling instead, his silver-ringed hand in his goth-kid hair, turning away like that, still Wilson. "You idiot," House says, softening his tone. "You think I can wield a, a ... whatever you put that shit on with? You want the monster, you'll have to create it."

"Pretty sure I already did," Wilson's vivid black lips curve into one of the most enticing shapes House has ever seen, and now it is _really_ time for alcohol, now now _now_. House makes another assault on the refrigerator, this time with better results: one beer for himself, one for Count Chocula. Who is wearing an earring, and how has that escaped notice until now? Right there, above the juncture of the jaw and the jugular, which would probably be a good place to _oh hell_.

House takes a deep, deep breath, and limps off to the couch. "You need to watch more movies," he says. "If you did, you'd know what happens to the guy who creates the monster."

Wilson sinks into the cushions beside him, dangerously close. Not close enough.

"Sooner or later," says Wilson, "it eats him."

For the second time that night, the legendary Gregory House has absolutely nothing to say.

  
~*~


End file.
